Chapter 1: Awakening in Trash (Part 4 — A Spark of Spirit)
The Duke of Astervale's study was the kind of place that made the air taste like iron and incense. Old books, relics of spirits long forgotten, lined every wall — each one sealed with thin runes that shimmered when touched by sunlight. A crimson carpet spread across the room like spilled wine, leading straight to a massive oak desk where the Duke himself sat, posture sharp, eyes sharper.
Eliot paused outside the door, hand hovering just above the handle.
The world inside this room was one of expectations — and expectations were dangerous.
"Here we go," he whispered under his breath.
"Oh? Nervous?" Whisper's amused tone echoed faintly from his shadow.
"Always," Eliot muttered back, pushing the door open before he could talk himself out of it.
The Duke looked up, his silver hair slicked back, his uniform immaculate. His gaze immediately measured Eliot like a craftsman inspecting a flawed piece of metal.
"You're late," the Duke said without looking at the clock.
Eliot bowed. "I was reviewing spirit diagrams, Father."
"Lies waste time," the Duke replied flatly. "And time is the one thing Astervales do not waste."
Eliot hid a sigh. In another life, the old Eliot would have stammered, begged forgiveness, or argued. This Eliot? He simply smiled lazily and shrugged.
"I'll remember that next time," he said with the kind of polite indifference that suggested there would be a next time.
The Duke's eyes flickered briefly — annoyance? amusement? Hard to tell.
"You grow bold," he said. "Boldness without strength is suicide. But perhaps you've finally realized that."
Eliot tilted his head. "I realized something, at least."
The Duke gestured toward the desk. "Sit."
Eliot obeyed, lowering himself into the chair opposite his father.
The silence that followed was not empty — it was an interrogation in disguise.
"You know what this family represents, don't you?" the Duke asked finally.
Eliot's fingers drummed against the armrest. "Power," he said. "Control over spirits. Legacy. Duty."
"And?"
"Debt," Eliot added softly. "To the first Spirit King who blessed our bloodline."
That earned him a faint twitch of the Duke's eyebrow. "You've been reading."
"I try to look like I'm improving," Eliot replied dryly.
The Duke's expression didn't change, but a faint gleam crossed his eyes — curiosity.
"Our line is fading, Eliot," the Duke said. "The Astervales once commanded spirit kings. Now, we're struggling to maintain even the lesser spirits. Benedict's wind contract keeps our name relevant, but that won't last forever. You, however…"
He leaned forward. "You were born with an unresponsive core. Not even minor spirits would resonate with you. You were—"
"Trash," Eliot finished for him, smiling faintly. "Yes, I've heard."
The Duke froze, surprised not by the word but by Eliot's calmness when saying it.
"That word doesn't bother you?"
"It did," Eliot admitted, meeting his father's eyes. "But now I think it's useful. Everyone underestimates trash. Trash can be ignored — and things ignored can move unseen."
The Duke studied him for a long, cold moment. Then, for the first time, a flicker of amusement ghosted across his lips.
"…You're not the same boy I remember."
Eliot's smile was faint. "People change."
"Or they remember who they were meant to be," the Duke murmured. "Fine. I'll test your newfound wisdom. You'll accompany Benedict to the Spirit Academy next month."
Eliot blinked. "The capital's academy?"
"Correct. The Royal Spirit Academy of Aeloria," the Duke said. "You'll attend as my son — no more hiding behind excuses. If you fail to contract even a minor spirit before the end of the first term, I'll strip you of succession rights and send you to the mines."
Eliot resisted the urge to groan. So much for peace.
"He's delightful," Whisper cooed sarcastically in his mind. "Does he always threaten his children before lunch?"
"Apparently," Eliot thought back.
"Understood," he said aloud. "When do I leave?"
"In three weeks," the Duke replied. "Until then, train. If Kieran or Benedict assist you, use that brain you claim to have."
Eliot stood and bowed. "I'll do my best to stay out of trouble."
"See that you do," his father said, already turning back to his papers.
Eliot stepped out into the corridor, closing the heavy door behind him. The moment it clicked shut, Whisper emerged from his shadow, yawning dramatically.
"Your father's charming. Has anyone told him threats aren't motivational?"
"Every morning," Eliot muttered.
"So, Academy, hmm?" Whisper's tails flicked in amusement. "You'll be surrounded by nobles, brats, and wannabe spirit tamers. Perfect for a man trying to stay unnoticed."
"Exactly," Eliot said.
"You're insane."
"Strategic," he corrected. "At the academy, disasters will gather around the protagonist — the original main character of the novel. I'll just orbit the edge, avoid everything dangerous, and collect useful crumbs."
Whisper smirked. "You keep calling this world a 'novel.' Care to explain?"
"Later," Eliot said. "Too many eyes right now."
"Fine. But you'll tell me eventually."
They turned a corner and stepped into one of the manor's side courtyards — a small garden where light fell through crystal leaves of the enchanted trees. Spirit motes floated lazily among the flowers, glowing faintly in shades of blue and gold.
Whisper stretched, her tails fanning out behind her like liquid moonlight. "This place is saturated with mana. You could start practicing resonance here."
Eliot frowned. "With what? I barely understand the theory."
"You don't need theory. Just feel."
"Feel," he repeated skeptically.
"Yes. Close your eyes. Breathe. Imagine you're sinking beneath the surface of water — slow, silent. Let your mind drift."
He hesitated but obeyed. His breath slowed, and the sounds of the manor faded. He felt the faint hum of energy in the air — like static before a storm.
"Now reach," Whisper's voice guided. "Don't grab, just touch. Spirits hate greed."
Eliot extended his awareness. For a moment, nothing happened. Then something pulsed inside his chest — a second heartbeat. The air trembled. The garden lights flared.
And then —
The world opened.
He saw thousands of threads of light weaving through the air, every one connected to something living — plants, spirits, even the faint echoes of emotions. He felt their whispers, their curiosity, their distant fear.
"He sees us."
"Not possible…"
"The cursed line breathes again…"
The voices faded as quickly as they came, and Eliot gasped, opening his eyes. The garden was quiet again, though the air still shimmered faintly.
Whisper stared at him — for once, silent.
Finally, she said softly, "You didn't just touch the spirits, Eliot. You touched the Veil itself."
He blinked. "The Veil?"
"The border between the mortal realm and the Spirit Realms. No human should be able to sense it without an ancient bond. Whatever's inside you… it's waking."
Eliot rubbed his temples. "So much for staying unnoticed."
Whisper smiled slowly, eyes glinting like dawn fire.
"Oh, you'll never stay unnoticed now, Lazy Lord. The world just felt your spark."
As Eliot stood there, trying to steady his breath, something flickered across his reflection in the garden's crystal pond — not his own shadow, but a faint outline behind it.
Nine tails.
All transparent, all shimmering faintly before vanishing again.
Whisper's voice was low now, almost reverent.
"So it begins."
He stared at the water, heart pounding. "What begins?"
"Your awakening, Eliot Astervale. The first of your thousand tails."
The breeze carried the faint sound of bells — or laughter — from nowhere and everywhere at once.
Eliot exhaled, eyes narrowing.
"Then I'd better make sure I survive to grow the rest."
The sun dipped below the horizon, and in the distance, the Duke's manor lights flickered on one by one.
In the shadows, unseen by both man and spirit, something ancient stirred.
A pair of golden eyes opened in the dark — watching.
And far beyond the mortal realm, deep in the Spirit Veil, an ancient voice whispered:
"The cycle begins anew."